


crawl 'til dawn

by soundthebells (kosy)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ....Despite What It Sounds Like This Is Actually Fluff, Canon-Atypical Tenderness, Canon-Typical Jon Being Mean, Canon-Typical Repression and Failure to Communicate, Canon-Typical Tea, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Romantic Tension, if you will, set between Colony and The Boatswain's Call, the usual basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22222144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosy/pseuds/soundthebells
Summary: Probably it’s late. It always seems to be, these days. Jon is sitting at his desk, heels of his palms pressed hard against his cheekbones, hands cupped over the hollows of his eyes. So he hears Martin before he sees him, careful, measured steps heading toward his door. Not stomping, of course; Jon’s lectured him enough about that in the recent months that he knows better by now. More like… deliberate. Loud enough to shake Jon out of any stupor he may have fallen into, quiet enough not to be too obvious. He recognizes these things now. This particular brand of awareness is a rather unfortunate byproduct of spending so much time with Martin, living as he is in the archives, tiptoeing around and falling over himself to make sure Jon is comfortable, like he’s trying to apologize for taking up more space in his life. Not for the first time in these last few weeks, Jon curses the name of Jane Prentiss.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 13
Kudos: 138





	crawl 'til dawn

**Author's Note:**

> i'm only like a quarter of the way through season two, so sorry if any of this has been severely jossed or is just plain inaccurate! frankly i'm too scared to fact-check on the wiki, because spoilers. first fic in this fandom, etc etc etc. nonetheless i hope you enjoy this! <3

The thing is, Martin is actually competent. 

It’s not that Jon hadn’t known it, exactly. That was presumably why Martin had gotten hired, after all; an archive assistant isn’t a position to be scoffed at and clearly Jon has been trusting him with research work for months now. If the results were mixed, to say the least, well, that was to be expected. The job isn’t easy. It’s just—hmm. 

Probably it’s late. It always seems to be, these days. Jon is sitting at his desk, heels of his palms pressed hard against his cheekbones, hands cupped over the hollows of his eyes. So he hears Martin before he sees him, the pattern of careful, measured steps heading toward his office door. Not stomping, of course; Jon’s lectured him enough about that in the recent months that he knows better by now. More like… deliberate. Loud enough to shake Jon out of any stupor he may have fallen into, quiet enough not to be too obvious. He recognizes these things now. This particular brand of awareness is a rather unfortunate byproduct of spending so much time with Martin, living as he is in the archives, tiptoeing around and falling over himself to make sure Jon is comfortable, like he’s trying to apologize for taking up more space in his life. Not for the first time in these last few weeks, Jon curses the name of Jane Prentiss. 

Martin knocks on the door, three short, steady raps. “Can—can I come in? I brought some tea,” he offers from outside, voice muffled through the door, as soft and meek as ever. That actually—it sends a jolt of irrational anger through Jon, and he digs his nails into his hairline for a brief, spasmodic second.

“Just come in,” he snaps, and Martin does so quickly, opening the door just enough to shuffle inside and then hurriedly closing it behind him. 

“Sorry,” he says earnestly, in the tone that states clear as day that he doesn’t really know what it is he’s meant to be apologizing for, but he’s doing it anyway because he wants to, because it’s who he is, because he wants to— “It’s, uh, it’s Earl Grey, sorry if that’s not really what you—” 

Jon sighs, heavy enough that his entire body slumps with it, and only then does he take his hands away from his eyes. “It’s fine, Martin. You know I don’t care. Is that all?” 

In a hesitant, halting movement, Martin sets the cup down by Jon’s hand, a careful distance from the tape recorder, and shakes his head. “No, actually. It was about a case, but I was making a cup for myself anyway so, I just thought, y’know, it would be nice for you to have—to have tea as well? I know you don’t really make it for yourself all that often but it seems to calm you down, so—” He sees Jon’s face and flushes, embarrassed. “S-sorry. Rambling again, I know. But I was actually here to say that I was looking at the backlog of statements you wanted to make recordings of, and there’s one, I believe it’s number 0110201, it’s with a sailor and this sort of whistle-thing that I think—” 

_“Whistle-thing?”_ Jon cuts in with a tone so thick with disdain that Martin physically hunches his shoulders against it, but he presses on. 

“—that I think has unignorable parallels with case 10161301. I remember you talking about that funeral with those. Those silent people. And then later, the graveyard with all that fog…” He trails off hopefully, staring at Jon with a distinct nervousness that almost sets Jon on edge by proxy. Waiting for approval. 

Jon leans back in his chair. Considers. He remembers the case, actually, though it’s been a few days since he’d skimmed it and decided it was legitim—well, that it was worth committing to audio. And, honestly, he feels stupid for not noticing before this moment. 

What he actually says about it, though, is “do you _really_ have nothing better to do with your time than nitpicking statements for parallels like this is a Year 10 literature class?” 

Martin flushes again. “I don’t—Jon, I just thought it was worth noting, to see if you’d seen the same thing.” 

Jon bites back another jab, probably something meaner. He doesn’t know why he does it, what drives him to tear Martin apart like this. It isn’t as if he treats all his subordinates this way. He can imagine how Sasha would lash out right on back and leave him licking his wounds, how Tim would narrow his eyes and curl his lip, bite out something cold, leave. Is it because he knows Martin will just stand there and let him and then still bring him tea the next evening as if it’ll change anything? As if it’s ever made Jon at all kinder, Martin’s inexplicable habit of tripping over himself to wait on him? 

“I did,” he admits in a mutter, finally, after a pause that stretches just longer than comfortable. 

Martin exhales slowly, a proud little smile twitching up on his face. It’s—cute. Jon physically startles at the thought, but Martin, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Thanks,” Martin says softly, and Jon digs his nails into his own palms. He hadn’t even done anything. 

“Is that all?” Jon repeats, curt, but Martin is still smiling like an idiot into the space just to the right of Jon’s head. _“Martin.”_ His voice goes sharper at that, and Martin startles. 

“Sorry!” he half-yelps and then scurries out of the room, sloshing tea from his own mug ever so slightly as he goes. The drops land on the floor, thankfully missing anything important, but Jon still makes a sharply annoyed noise he hopes Martin can hear on the other side of the door and goes to clean them up before he forgets. 

His mind drifts back to the cases, 10161301 and 0110201. He can’t believe he hadn’t seen the link before, so obvious now in hindsight. He’d have to include that in the official recording, of course. Unfortunate. 

Not that Martin would be rude about the whole thing. 

Tim would at least scoff at him for being so dismissive only to include the point in the statement anyway. Sasha would have given him a well-deserved cold shoulder. Martin, though. Martin would probably just smile daftly like he does. 

That’s the issue, really. That he wouldn’t be rude about it. Rudeness, at least, Jon knows how to handle. He’s got plenty of practice taking verbal lashings, getting dressed down for his own downright meanness to coworkers, peers, even friends; he’s well used to bullying, to sneers, to people far more inclined to yell at him than forgive him for the social stumbles and faults he’s so prone to. 

But Martin is competent. And he’s kind. Often the kindest person in the room. Certainly so when Jon is the only other one in it. 

(He remembers his first day at the Archives, remembers sitting blankly in that room crowded with misfiled and unfiled and sometimes entirely _missing_ statements strewn across the floor and thrown haphazardly into boxes and manila folders, not knowing where to start; wondering, vaguely, if he should just quit. Remembers Martin coming in to introduce himself, smiling that stupid gentle smile that crinkles up his eyes ever so slightly. Extending a hand to shake, the surprisingly soft and warm palms. Fingers lightly touching his wrist. There was an offer of help to clean up, Jon remembers, one that he brushed off without second thought. Still, Martin had just smiled again, headed back toward the door. Paused. Said if he’d needed anything, just let him know, and he’d do his best. Absurdly, sitting at his desk surrounded by that impossible job with these strange people and the mystery of his predecessor hanging over his head and out of nowhere this sudden, steady kindness, he almost wants to cry. Idiotic

(—but not much has changed, is the thing. Sometimes a statement will throw him more than he ever wants to let on while recording. Martin always seems to know, to sense it through the wall. Comes into his office. Lets Jon ramble, vitriolic as ever, about the case, lets him tear it apart if he wants to, like a dog with a stuffed toy and nothing else to take its anger out on without getting shot. Touches his shoulder lightly, sometimes, as if afraid but still desperate to help in any way he can. 

(Jon wishes he knew how to hate him.).)) 

He shakes himself, forcing his hand to bring the mug of tea to his lips. Takes a sip. Earl Grey, no sugar, splash of milk just enough to add an extra hint of smoothness that he finds makes the taste more interesting, juxtaposing the flavor of the black tea. Perfectly made. 

Martin has never made Jon Earl Grey in his life. Has no way of knowing it’s exactly how he likes it. 

“Shut _up,”_ Jon grumbles to the tape recorder lying in front of him. 

Thankfully, it does not reply. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all for reading this!! it really does mean a lot to me, honestly. the title is from "damn these vampires" by the mountain goats, because damn if that band isn't perfect for tma. if there's a non-spoiler inaccuracy or just a typo/glaring americanism in general feel free to let me know and i'll fix it. please do comment if you enjoyed this, it means the whole world! thanks again <3


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